


Moonlight Sonata

by SuburbanSun



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Cellist Jemma Simmons, Classical Music, Dancing, F/M, Meet-Cute, Musicians, Non-SHIELD AU, String Quartet AU, Violist Leo Fitz, wedding band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7382647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuburbanSun/pseuds/SuburbanSun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What cellist Jemma Simmons expected from her first wedding gig was a paycheck. What she got was beautiful music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Moonlight Sonata

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dilkirani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilkirani/gifts).



> Written for The Fitzimmons Network's FS Music Challenge: "create a musically inspired work, e.g. a gifset with lyrics, a fanfiction where FS are musicians, a fanmix, etc."

Jemma’s heels crunched on the gravel as she walked up the winding drive. She wrinkled her nose-- _definitely should’ve worn flats_. She adjusted her grip on her cello case and approached the house (more like a mansion, really) with only the faintest of butterflies flitting through her stomach.

“ _There_ you are!” shouted an exasperated woman, all buttoned up in a crisp white shirt. “When the company said they were sending another cellist, I didn’t realize they were sending her from _Cincinnati_.”

“Oh, I’m not--”

The woman glared. “I know. It was a joke.” She spun on her heels in a way that seemed to indicate that Jemma should follow, so she did, falling in line as they made their way into the house’s sleek and sprawling foyer, through the well-equipped and modern kitchen, down a corridor and out into the vast and lush backyard.

No, Jemma thought, house was certainly the wrong word. This was an _estate_.

“The others are getting prepped over there,” the woman, who had still not introduced herself, said. She jerked a thumb toward a section of cobblestoned patio. Jemma saw three musicians in various stages of setup, perched on wrought-iron chairs. “The ceremony starts in an hour but the guests start arriving in 30. Be ready.” Then she disappeared back inside. Jemma wondered that a puff of smoke wasn’t left in the woman’s wake.

“Don’t mind her,” called out one of the musicians, the only woman among them. She shook her dark, wavy hair over one shoulder, settled her violin in its case at her feet, and smirked. “She’s just a bitch.”

Jemma suppressed a laugh and approached the trio. “So I noticed.”

“She’s not so bad once you get to know her,” chimed in a deep voice that belonged to the other violinist. He held out a hand. “I’m Alphonso Mackenzie. Or you can call me Mack.” Jemma shook his hand, his easy grin igniting one on her own face.

“I’m Daisy,” said the other violinist, sticking out her own hand for Jemma to shake. “First violinist to this guy’s second.” She nudged one of Mack’s massive biceps with her elbow, and he fixed her with a harmless glare. “And this--” Daisy continued, gesturing over her shoulder to the last member of their group. “Is Fitz.”

The man glanced up from his viola for just long enough to let Jemma to catch a glimpse of his blue eyes before they were focused on the instrument once again, the hint of a smile gracing his face. “Hello,” he said.

“Hi.” Jemma set her cello case gently on the ground and smiled at them warmly. “I’m Jemma Simmons. Your cellist for the evening, apparently.”

Daisy gave her a wry look. “Yeah, our usual cellist is great, but she got back with her on-again boyfriend and he whisked her away for the weekend as a surprise.” She slid her gaze over to Mack. “Odds they’re broken up again before they even check into the hotel?”

“Come on, Daisy, give them a little credit.” Mack chuckled. “Dinner tonight, soup course. And they’ll be back together by the time dessert comes out.”

“You’re on!”

Jemma laughed, leaning down to open her case and pull out the cello inside. She’d worn a long dress, and had to take care not to step on its skirt as she knelt. Standing up, she walked around behind the group of chairs, tuning out Mack and Daisy’s jovial conversation as she settled in beside Fitz.

“So,” she began, hoping to catch his eye again. “How long have you been performing with Mack and Daisy?”

He shrugged one shoulder, not quite looking up at her. Was he bored? Rude? “Not too long,” he replied after a moment. “The last year or so.”

“Oh, that’s lovely. I’ve mostly played solo, or with one-off groups. It must be nice to be a part of an established quartet.”

At that, he actually looked up. His expression was thoughtful, and she couldn't help but note how handsome he was, in spite of his reticence. “It is nice.”

Heels clacked against stone, and Jemma drew her eyes away from Fitz to see the woman from earlier-- their boss, she supposed-- looming over them. “I don’t hear tuning. Do you plan on just winging it today? I mean, it’s _only_ the most special day of our bride’s entire life.”

She was gone before she could see Daisy’s tongue sticking out behind her. Even so, the conversation quieted around them as they all turned their attention to their instruments. With a grin and bit of a thrill at the thought of performing as part of a group for the first time in ages, Jemma lifted her bow and began to tune.

 

“That was a lovely ceremony, wasn’t it?” Jemma whispered as they lowered their bows. They had a short break before playing for the cocktail hour, and Daisy and Mack leapt up immediately, muttering something about finding out if Hunter had ruined his chances yet. Fitz looked a little surprised to be left alone with her, but then managed to hide it well.

“Fairly standard, as far as weddings go,” he answered with a shrug. “‘Dearly beloved,’ ‘kiss the bride,’ all that sort of thing.”

She scoffed. “Surely you’re not that cynical about romance.”

“I’ll have you know I can be quite romantic, actually.” He shrugged, scratching at his jaw absently and resting his viola against his knee. “We’ve just played a million weddings in the last year or so that we’ve been playing as a group. They start to blend together as time goes by.”

“I suppose there is a certain degree of similarity there,” Jemma admitted. “But I haven’t a _million_ paying gigs,” she said, a note of teasing in her voice, and she was pleased to notice the tips of his ears go a bit red. “This is all a bit thrilling for me.”

Fitz looked at her appraisingly, then tucked his instrument into its open case beside him and turned back to face her, unencumbered. “Want to play a game, then?”

“What kind of a game?”

He quirked an eyebrow. “Which of the bridesmaids is the best man going to try to shag first?”

“Fitz!” She smacked his bicep lightly with the back of one hand. “That’s not terribly romantic, is it?”

He grimaced. “Neither’s the best man, typically. Or many of the members of the bridal party, once they’ve spent enough time at the open bar.” He smirked at her, and she found herself smiling back. “You’ll see.”

Just then, Daisy and Mack returned, each with a linen napkin draped over one hand. Jemma furrowed her brow at the sight, until they sat down and Daisy revealed two cocktails hidden beneath the napkin.

“We’re not _technically_ allowed to partake in the open bar while we’re playing, but what Ol’ Battleaxe doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” She passed Jemma a glass, her hand held low beside the legs of their chairs. “Just hide it behind that massive case of yours and we’ll be golden.”

With a nervous giggle, Jemma took the drink-- which seemed to be a gin and tonic, a lime wedge perched jauntily on the lip of the glass-- and took a secretive sip, before hastily settling it behind her case. Fitz did the same thing with the dark liquor drink that Mack handed him.

“Alright, gang,” said Mack. “Bows up.”

Jemma grinned-- she’d loved playing the pieces that the bride and groom had selected for the walk down the aisle and the rest of their ceremony, but was particularly excited about the cocktail hour, in which they had a bit more freedom to play whatever they liked.

Mack counted off, and they began, bows moving elegantly across strings, and Jemma began to lose herself in the music. Playing as part of an ensemble made her feel whole, like something she’d been missing had finally been set into place. Her gaze wandered from the sheet music spread out in front of her-- luckily, she was very good at memorization-- and over to her right, where she caught Fitz’s eye. He gave her a small nod, not looking away from her as he began to move his bow faster and faster over the strings of his viola.

She instantly started to pick up her tempo as well, matching him note for note without breaking eye contact. The piece built to its climactic crescendo as they watched each other play. Jemma found herself oblivious to the sounds of the violins, the wedding guests, and the chirping crickets on the outskirts of the expansive lawn, her attention narrowed to the sound of his instrument mingling with hers.

And then the piece was over, with one last, sustaining note.

Daisy’s chuckle brought Jemma out of her daze. “Geez, guys. Warn a girl next time you want to speed up a piece like that.”

“As if you can’t keep up,” Mack said, equal parts teasing and fond.

Jemma finally wrenched her gaze away from Fitz, looking at her sheet music at last and turning the page. “Next piece?”

It went on like that for the remainder of the cocktail hour. Fitz would take the lead, or Jemma would, but regardless, each piece wound up taking on a new tempo, or a unique flair. Once the boss-- whose name Jemma _still_ didn’t know-- told them they were free to take the shift meal that was included as part of their compensation with the caterers, Mack and Daisy had given up on the two of them, leaving them to their own devices.

“That was…” Fitz began, searching for words.

“Exhilarating,” Jemma finished. “It’s been quite some time since playing has felt like that for me.”

He nodded slightly, blinking at her. “It’s been quite some time since I haven’t been bored to tears while playing at a wedding. There’s only so much Mendelssohn and Wagner one can take.”

A slow smile grew on her face, and she leaned down to settle her cello in its case and shut it for the evening. Once that was complete, she sat back up, smoothing out the skirt of her dress before speaking. “So this shift meal…”

Fitz wrinkled his nose. “Not everything you’ve always dreamed of. It’s usually not the fancy food the wedding guests get to eat. No chocolate fountains or anything. Just something catering brought for the servers and bartenders to have, probably pasta or something simple.”

“Ah.” She knew that now that they were finished playing for the night, they were free to go home, but for some reason, she found that she didn’t really want to quite yet. She looked up, surveying the scene-- strings of elegant lights glowed in the dim of twilight. The music had shifted from their quartet to a DJ on the other end of the garden, but instead of Top 40 radio hits, she could hear the opening notes of a song she recognized from the Big Band era. An elderly couple had already begun to slow dance to the music, though it wasn’t officially that part of the evening yet. She couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“You probably want to head home, get some real food…” Fitz said hesitantly.

She swung her gaze back to him, and something about the soft music and warm light made her feel honest. “Not at all, actually.”

He looked up at her through dark lashes, his head tilted downward, and smiled. “Did you know there’s a waterfall in the backyard?”

Jemma frowned at the change of subject, but shook her head. “I didn’t know that, no.”

Fitz nodded. “There is.” He looked up, craning his neck to one side, then the other, to take in the whole patio area. “I have an idea. That is,” he stammered, “if you’re interested.”

“I am.”

He stood up from his seat, and after a moment of consideration, picked up both their instrument cases and stuffed them under a nearby table that was covered in a tablecloth that skimmed the floor. “No one saw me do that, right?”

She looked around and giggled. It was funny how few people seemed to pay any attention to the paid employees at this sort of event. “I don’t think so, no.”

“Good,” he said, nodding resolutely. “Let’s go.” He took a step toward the house, then after nearly coming to a stumbling stop, reached back and offered her his hand. She took it and fell into step right beside him.

“First things first,” he muttered when they got inside. He led her into the kitchen, where catering had set up for the night. Looking to the left, then to the right, he lifted an entire tray filled with canapés from the countertop and led her back outside. “Come on, come on, hurry.”

“I’m trying!” She laughed. “You could go a bit faster, too, you know.”

He shot her a glare, but there was no heat behind it. “I’ve just stolen our supper, you know. You might want to be nice to me.”

Oh, was that how he wanted to play it? She raised her eyebrows and let go of his hand, tossing a glance over her shoulder to the bar that had been set up on the patio. “We’ll need something to accompany said supper, won’t we?” She slipped away, leaving him with a flummoxed look on his face, and snuck up beside the bartender. “I need four glasses of champagne, please.”

The bartender frowned at her, tilting his head pointedly at the line of people patiently waiting, and she smiled, nerves bubbling up in her chest.

“If you don’t mind,” she added. Didn’t it always pay to be polite?

He still looked doubtful, so she tucked her hair behind one ear and cocked her head to the side. “You certainly have the most gorgeous _head_ ,” she said.

The bartender blinked at her. “Ma’am, are you feeling alright?”

Jemma’s flirtatious grin faltered, and she paused. “It’s for the _bride_ ,” she added, and his demeanor changed in an instant.

“Say no more,” he said, pouring chilled champagne-- _the good stuff_ \-- into four expensive-looking flutes and handing them over. She grinned in relieved thanks, gripping the stems of the glasses two to a hand, and scurried back to Fitz before the bartender could realize she’d never spoken a word to the bride in her life.

Fitz seemed to have heard none of the exchange, for which Jemma was eternally grateful. She tossed her hair and grinned at him smugly. “Thirsty?”

An awed smile bloomed on his face. “Parched,” he said, then jerked his head toward the yard, behind where the ceremony had taken place.

“Are you leading me to my doom?” Jemma asked as she followed him into the growing darkness of the backyard. They’d left the relative safety of the stones of the patio now, and the heels of her shoes sunk into the grass with every step.

“No,” he said. “Never. It’s just behind these sculptures.”

They arced around a large stone carving of a smiling cherub, and then there it was. A man-made creek wound through the newly-revealed section of the yard, culminating in a small, bubbling waterfall. A bench made of the same wrought iron of the chairs they’d performed in sat overlooking the water, and that was their destination.

Fitz set the tray of appetizers on the glass table that sat beside the bench, and Jemma placed the flutes of champagne on the stone beneath it. They sat down in unison.

Jemma took a moment to appreciate the stillness of the night. The waterfall and bench were mostly hidden from the view of the wedding guests by the sculpture garden and a row of meticulously-trimmed shrubbery, lending an almost otherworldly feeling to the scene. Fitz peered over at the pilfered tray, scooping up two smoked salmon puffs and handing one to Jemma.

“Hope you like salmon, because it seems to be all we have.”

She pinched it between her fingers and took a delicate bite. “We really ought to talk to the caterers about adding variety to their canapé trays for vagrants like ourselves.”

“Hey! We’re not vagrants.” He shrugged. “We’re opportunists. Besides, despite how elaborate this wedding seems to be, their rate for musicians was a bit sub-par. We only took the gig because nothing else had come our way for this date. So I do believe we’ve earned this snack as payment.”

Jemma leaned down and picked up a champagne flute in each hand, handing one of them to him. “To the happy couple,” she said, tilting her glass toward him. “May they not have to spend the rest of their lives paying off this extravagant wedding.”

He smiled. “To the happy couple. They were probably already rich, so I doubt they have to worry about it anyway.”

“Touché,” she said, clinking her glass against his.

“Touché,” he replied in kind.

They sipped their champagne, and Jemma kicked off her heels, letting them fall away and brushing her toes back and forth against the dewy grass.

“What drew you to the cello?” he asked around another bite of smoked salmon.

Jemma giggled, taking another sip of her champagne. “My brothers, actually. When it was time for me to choose an instrument-- because in my family, we were all expected to be extremely accomplished in a wide variety of ways by the age of eleven, of course-- they teased me and said that I was too small and that it was too large for me to even lift it.”

“So you just had to prove them wrong?”

“For the next seventeen years of my life, yes.”

Fitz gave a low chuckle, tracing the metal whorls of the bench between them with the tips of his fingers. “I took up the viola because there was nothing else to do in the town I grew up in. We had an old one lying around the house handed down from my mum’s aunt, and it was either that or throwing rocks at abandoned houses with the neighborhood boys.”

“And that wasn’t your idea of a rousing Friday night?”

He smiled at her sheepishly. “More like they didn’t want a scrawny, pasty orchestra nerd tagging along.”

“Well,” she began, reaching over him to pluck another pastry from the tray. He leaned back, but not far enough that her arm didn’t brush across his chest as she returned to her position on the bench. “I think you’re better off.”

“What, playing the odd wedding gig every weekend to make ends meet? Hoping to get booked for charity galas in the off season? I’ve got my fingers crossed that we’ll book the zoo’s annual Save the Monkeys dinner, you know.”

“That’s not what I mean. Doing what you love. What you’re good at, at least.” She raised her eyebrows, a question in her eyes. “I can only assume you love it.”

His shoulders slumped in resignation, and one corner of his mouth quirked up. “I really do.”

She grinned. “I really do, too.”

The DJ chose that moment to turn up the volume on the music, still an old tune from the ‘40s, and Jemma downed the dregs of her first glass of champagne. She twisted in her seat so she could face Fitz more fully, and held out a hand, her palm up. “Dance with me.”

“What?” His eyebrows shot up, and he frowned.

“You heard me. The music is lovely; this night is lovely.” She sat up straighter, putting on her most serious, formal expression. “May I have this dance?”

He watched her with his mouth slightly open for a long moment, then slipped his hand into hers and stood, pulling her up along with him. “As you wish.”

Giggling-- how much had she _giggled_ this evening? More than she did in an average week, certainly-- she drew him off the cobblestone path and onto the grass, which still felt cool against her bare feet. She reached up to wrap her arms around his neck, careful not to pull him too close-- they’d only just met, after all-- and began to move.

“Da dum… da da dum….” he hummed, swaying them back and forth in their secluded spot.

“Can’t listen to music without contributing your part, hmm?” He smiled at her guiltily, and she wrinkled her nose in understanding. “Me too.”

He nodded to the beat, adjusting his hands on her waist to hold her just a bit tighter. “Can’t help myself.”

She hummed. “Me neither.”

They danced like that for the length of one song, then the next, both humming along, sometimes in unison, sometimes in harmony. Finally, the DJ seemed to give in to some wedding guest’s request-- the first few notes of a Rihanna song floated through the yard, and they reluctantly broke apart.

Biting his lip, Fitz crossed to their bench to collect each of their second champagne flutes, then rejoined her on the lawn, seeming to either not notice or not care that the bottoms of his dress pants were getting damp from the grass. He handed her a glass, holding his aloft.

“To weddings,” he said. “The start of something…” he trailed off.

“Romantic?” she finished, and he grinned, his eyes dancing.

“Touché.”

She clinked her glass to his, stepping close enough to him to feel the warmth of his body, the grass cool and welcoming beneath her feet. “Touché.”

**Author's Note:**

> Want to hang out on Tumblr? I'm unbreakablejemmasimmons over there!


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